


Happy Fucking Birthday To Me

by orphan_account



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Birthdays, Canon Divergence sorta, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Flustered Mickey, Fourth of July, Gallagher Party, Happy Gallavich, I'm bad at tags and summaries, Lip and Mickey get along, M/M, Mickey deserves a little happiness, Presents, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-22 22:48:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13176831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Debbie emerges from the rickety old steps, carrying a large, square cake, featuring a whole cluster of lit candles as everyone starts to sing “Happy Birthday” at their own pace. Mickey glares around sullenly, his gaze finally landing on Ian.“Really? What the fuck?”Ian laughs right in his face. “Happy birthday to you too, Mick.”





	Happy Fucking Birthday To Me

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, well, here's my first real Gallavich Fic. I fell head over heals in love with this couple a few months ago and have finally been able to write a bit of what I feel. Pretty new to this fandom but I love it already and have spent hours pouring through stories on here.
> 
> Takes place the summer after 5x12, under the premises that Mickey never went to jail and the two never broke up, though the 'breakup scene' may have happened.

“Hey Mickey, guess what?” Ian calls out from the faded Milkovich couch he’s lounging on.

“Fuck you going on about?”

“Tomorrow’s your birthday, Mick!” Ian responds cheerfully, rolling his eyes at his boyfriend’s perpetually annoyed state.

“Shit, forgot about that…” Mickey swaggers into the living room, carrying a plate full of chicken nuggets which he hastily slams down on the cluttered coffee table, followed by a bottle of orange juice. Ever since Ian’s diagnosis, the juice has largely replaced the usual cans of beer that used to accompany every meal of his.

“You make these yourself?” Ian asks, grabbing a couple of nuggets as Mickey settles in beside him.

“Oh, fuck no! It’s this frozen shit…whatever. Whatchya’ watching?”

Ian turns back to the TV, not sure himself what’s playing. He’d turned the thing on as soon as he’d gotten home but he’d been too busy chatting Mickey up to pay any attention.

“Commercial break. Maybe the Sox, I don’t give a shit. How was work?”

Mickey snorts, chewing loudly. He’s been working for Tommy for a couple of weeks now since the summer started, and the two do not exactly hit it off. “Prick’s got me on the roof now. I swear he’s just waiting for me to break my fucking neck or something. And it doesn’t help that your brother’s running his fucking mouth any chance he’s got. How’d you live with that asshole for seventeen years?”

The redhead shrugs, smirking. “We beat the shit out of each other regularly.”

Mickey snorts. “Yeah, except if I did that, it’d be a felony. How ‘bout you? How was Patsy’s?”

Ian sighs, leaning his head back and putting his feet up on the table, kicking aside some of Iggy’s crushed beer cans. “Same as usual. Fiona’s up my ass every fucking minute. I’m almost ready to quit and go back to school.”

“Bitches love bossing people around,” Mickey answers wisely.

“Svetlana?”

“Yeah, Medusa _still_ thinks I owe her money. I thought now that she’s doing her weird-ass threesome thing, she’d let up. But obviously, that’s not fucking happening. At least she moved her shit out.”

Ian nods, shifting slightly so that his thigh is pressed against Mickey’s. “So what are we doing for your birthday?”

“Ain’t that your job?” Mickey asks good-naturedly, looking sideways at Ian. “Aren’t you supposed to surprise me or some shit?”

“Nah, want you to have a good time, and you hate surprises. So what do you wanna do?”

“Is this before or after the fucking?” Mickey questions, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Ian grins at him, ghosting his palm over Mickey’s crotch. “Before, obviously. You’ll be too worn out after.”

“Like fuck, I will!” Mickey exclaims slinging an arm around the taller boy’s neck and raising his eyebrows. The two wrestle on the couch for a few minutes before moving things to the bedroom like they always do. It’s just the two of them at the Milkovich house most of the time these days, besides for Iggy who may or may not show up. Svetlana moved in with Kev and Vee, Mandy’s still gone, Terry’s locked up, and the rest of the Milkovich brothers are either incarcerated or have found another shithole to call home. Still, they always move to their bedroom for sex. They never speak about the reasoning for it, it’s just one of those things. Even though Mickey’s out, the fear of getting caught is as real as ever. Especially when no one has any idea when Terry might get out on parole again. They’ve finally gotten a goddamn lock for their door too and usually remember to close it before getting down to business.

* * *

 

“Still haven’t told me what you wanna do,” Ian whispers against Mickey’s neck later that night.

The older guy flips around so that they’re face to face before answering. “I don’t like going out. Hate those fucking clubs and their lights and…” he trails off to press a kiss to Ian’s collarbone before continuing. “All those geriatrics hitting on you. Glad you don’t work at one of those anymore.”

Ian smiles, running a finger down Mickey’s spine gently. He loves everything about the brunette pressed against him. Loves him in the kitchen just as much as he loves him in bed (and God, is he good in bed!), but this right here is his favorite version of Mickey. The gentle, relaxed version of him that only he ever gets to see. The version that isn’t afraid to touch and be touched, or to love and be loved. This Mickey is the one that got him through the worst days of his life.

“Maybe we can finally go on our date?” Ian suggests without any real muster. He’s been asking the other boy about their date for months already, to no avail. It was always ‘I’m tired’ or ‘I gotta work late’ or ‘I don’t got time for that shit’, and even a ‘why can’t we just have the fucking date at home?’.

“Mmmm….maybe,” Mickey mutters, burying his head further into Ian’s chest, breathing him in, feeling him. Sometimes he has to remind himself that Ian is still here, beside him. That everything is mostly okay in his world. That Ian’s not in the army, in the club, in the fucking psych ward, in a crack house… He’d wake up and panic if Ian’s arms have slipped off him while they slept. He’d turn around, dreading that he’d see, not the beautiful redhead he loved, but a mousy-haired woman who he felt nothing for. One he was forced to share a bed with, forced to pretend to love, forced to marry, forced to fuck…

“Shit,” Mickey whispers, bringing a hand up to knead his forehead. _Why the fuck can’t I just get that shit outta my head?_

Ian doesn’t miss the muffled curse. “What?”

“Nothing. Just remembered…Gotta be at the lawyer tomorrow to finalize the divorce.”

Ian’s hand tightens around his back as he presses a kiss to the top of Mickey’s head. “You’ll finally be a free man.”

“Yeah, except all that shit actually happened and I can’t just fucking forget about it, especially not with Yevgeny in the mix.”

“You hate her?” Ian asks quietly.

Mickey detaches himself before answering, looking up at Ian, his cheek squashed against a pillow. “No, don’t hate her. She’s okay mostly. Good with Yevgeny. But she’s a pain in the ass too. You know she wanted to fucking kick you out while you were going through your shit?”

“She did? You never told me that…” Ian mutters, shifting slightly to see Mickey better.

“Yeah, bitch was actually packing your shit. Told her she’s free to leave if she don’t like it.”

“No wonder she gives me the stink-eye anytime I go pick up Yevgeny…”

Mickey chuckles and stifles a yawn before fitting a leg in between Ian’s lanky ones and wrapping his arms around the younger boy’s waist. “Can we just shut the fuck up and go to sleep now?”

“Yeah, but you’re coming to the barbecue tomorrow.”

“Not this again.”

Ian laughs and tries to tickle Mickey’s neck but is stopped by the other guy’s iron grip on his wrist. “Your birthday also happens to be the fucking Fourth of July, Mick! What are you gonna do? Spend the night here, getting stoned alone? Because I’m going.”

“Just shut the fuck up,” the brunette grumbles with finality.

* * *

 

“Ey, fuck’s your problem, _pendejo_?! You got a death wish or something?!!!”

Ian smiles before even catching a glimpse of the pissed off face he knows that voice belongs to. Mickey seems to be in an eternal state of irritation. It’s one of the things that he’s always found so damn addictive about the brunette. How steady and unchanging he is. He could be angry or scared, happy or sad, but his constant stream of grumpy remarks will never let up. He’s also funny as fuck.

“Hey Grump-o,” Ian calls out, rounding the corner and being greeted by the sight of Mickey up in some unsuspecting Mexican laborer’s face. No surprise there.

“Shit for brains here thought it’s a good idea to unhook himself before getting on the fucking ladder!”

Ian has no idea what Mickey’s complaining about now and doesn’t bother figuring it out.

“Si vuelves a hacer eso, te meto la polla en la garganta!” Mickey yells at the guy, before waving his hand at him dismissively, as if trying to rid himself of the guy’s stupidity.

“I learned me a little Spanish to deal with these fucks,” he says, turning back to Ian, craning his neck and pulling off his hard hat.

“No idea what you just said, but it’s fucking hot. Maybe we should start speaking Spanish,” Ian suggests flippantly trying and failing to get an arm around Mickey’s shoulder.

“Well, well, well! If it ain’t South Side’s very own Neil Patrick Harris and David Burtka! Out and about!” Tommy’s grating voice cuts across the debris-filled lot.

“Fuck off!” Mickey shouts at him, flipping him off in the process. “Guy won’t shut up about us. I swear, I’m starting to think he’s some kind of closeted queen. If it weren’t for him going on about Svetlana’s tits…Urrgh! Fuck! Whatever.”

Tommy reaches them, an idiotic grin splitting his face. “So when are you two gonna tie the knot? Make it official?”

This time they both flip him off and maybe he finally realizes that nobody finds him hilarious, because he gets the hint and walks away. Only to be replaced by Lip a moment later.

“Everything okay in Paradise?”

“See what I have to deal with?” Mickey huffs, his eyebrows going sky-high as he flashes Lip the bird, not even deigning to look at him. “Getting to the point where this job ain’t even worth it.”

“Pays a lot better than Patsy,” Ian returns, scowling down at the drab gray t-shirt he wears every day now.

“Maybe you two should switch jobs,” Lip suggests helpfully, clapping them both on the shoulder.

Mickey shrugs him off immediately. “Not cleaning up anyone’s shit.”

“And I’m not hauling shit,” Ian echoes.

“Sides, the job’s just for a couple of more weeks, after that I’ll rejoin the ranks of the criminal and unemployed,” Mickey adds, hoping to get rid of Lip.

“Jesus! You sound like Frank now. Anyway, is the birthday boy gonna be joining us for our annual celebration of Uncle Sam’s-“

“Shut the fuck up, Lip,” Ian interjects before his brother can really get rolling on one of his sanctimonious, anti-establishment ramblings. “No one wants to hear it.”

“Whatever. Hot as hell today. I’m ready to get hammered.”

Mickey snorts, as he whips out a cigarette. “You’re always ready to get hammered, _Philip_.”

They pass the cigarette around for a couple of minutes before Tommy interrupts and puts Mickey and Lip back to work. Ian sits down on a pile of boulders to wait out the half hour left to their shift and watches his two favorite people in the world haul ass. The bickering between the two never stops, but at the end of the day, they get along, even enjoy hanging out (though they’ll both vehemently deny it if asked).

Ian knows that Mickey and Lip were once friends, or at least allies, in school. They were in the same class, from the same neighborhood, and both from notoriously fucked up families. And they were both pretty fucking smart; maybe Mickey wasn’t an actual genius, but he was well above most of the South Side. He remembers how much it sucked to be a Gallagher, to be Frank’s son, in school. It’s what had driven him and Mandy together. Sure, everyone was fucking poor, everyone’s family was messed up, but the Gallaghers were uniquely so, and Ian shudders thinking about some of the rumors that used to circulate about the Milkoviches. They were probably true, most of them. He knew for a fact that one of the more egregious ones, the one about Terry sexually assaulting his kids, was true.

He also knows that at some point, around the start of high school, they drifted apart. Mickey became meaner and rougher, as he was incorporated into the Milkovich family business, and Lip’s sense of superiority boomed, to the point where he considered anyone in the public school system below him, let alone a thug. They became grudging acquaintances, with an awkward history, knowing more about each other than either of them cared for.

But then, life took some strange turns, and here they are now, thrown back together, Mickey, a whole lot tougher, but more easygoing, and Lip, his ego still very much inflated, but more mature. And it works. The three of them hang out a lot these days. Ian only wishes it’s the four of them.

Mandy. He can’t think of her without an uncomfortable knot of worry twisting his gut. It’s been over a month since her last text: _Fuck off im fine_ **.**

“Hey, let’s go.” Mickey interrupts his depressing reflections by nudging Ian’s shoulder with his hip. “Shift’s over.”

Lip joins them and the three make their way back to their corner of town, passing the Alibi on the way, where Frank is sprawled out, dead to the world.

“Gonna miss tonight. It’s weird, he’s usually there,” Ian comments, glaring down at him.

“Oh, believe me, he’ll turn up. Wouldn’t miss a chance to mess up the 4th of July,” Lip says, getting in a kick to Frank’s backside before moving on. They lose Lip at the North Wallace house and then it’s just the two of them, swaggering down the street, heading for the Milkovich hovel they call home.

“So,” Ian says as they cross the threshold. “What now?”

“Nothing is what. We ain’t going out, I can barely move. I’m gonna take a fucking nap,” Mickey grumbles, stretching his biceps with a grimace.

“Miiiiick.”

“What? I’ll be at the fucking barbecue tonight if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“It’s your birthday, dick!”

“And I told you, I don’t wanna do anything. I just want to…” Mickey goes silent.

“What?”

Mickey blushes and looks away when answering. “Nothing. Just wanna be with you, okay?”

This placates Ian and he finally relents. “Fine. I’m gonna be back here in an hour to get you. You better be ready.”

“I will be,” Mickey says quickly. He kisses Ian on the cheek and watches him leave before collapsing on their bed, falling asleep within seconds.

* * *

 

Moments later, or so it seems, he’s shaken awake by Ian who’s babbling on about Carl’s criminal behavior. _Doesn’t realize he’s talking to a criminal, does he?_

“He and Lip lifted this gas grill from some North Side mansion yesterday, so we’re gonna see how…”

Mickey tunes him out as he changes out of his sweaty clothes, opting for a cut-off, plaid shirt and one of his few pairs of jeans that aren’t complete trash. Then he splashes some water on his face, trying to drain the sleepiness from his body.

“Alright, let’s go,” he says, cutting off Ian’s rant about the price of hot-dogs.

Ian looks him up and down for a few moments as if seeing him for the first time, before speaking again, a sheepish smile spreading across his face. “Sorry… I know I’m rambling. I just…you’re the only one who’ll listen, you know?”

Mickey shrugs, grinning. “Keep talking, Ian. I ain’t complainin’. I run my fucking mouth all the time.”

Ian smiles fully before he jumps. “Oh, look what I got!” And he whips out two gaudy, red-white-and-blue bucket hats.

“What the fuck?! I ain’t wearing one of those!” Mickey cries out, disgusted. “Give em’ to Kev and Vee. Those idiots’ll wear anything.”

“Come on, Mickey! It’ll be fun! Besides, I’ll make….” He trails off, his fingers twitching, as though counting. “I’ll make fifty bucks if you wear one. Twenty-five from Lip alone.”

Mickey hesitates. He can’t really miss a chance to take money off Lip. “Oh, fuck it,” he says, grabbing one out of Ian’s hand. “But it’s coming off as soon as soon as you collect.”

* * *

 

They hear the Gallagher party before they even spot anyone. Shitty music blaring, random screams, hysterical laughter, it’s fucking loud! Ian’s already wearing his hat but Mickey puts it on just as they enter the yard and head around back where the party is in full swing. He knows he looks fucking insane, but it’s worth it for the silly grin on Ian’s face. Not too long ago, he felt like he’d never see that brilliant smile again, so these days he’s ready to do almost anything for it.

Shouts of “Ian!” and “Mickey!” ring out across the yard, as well as quite a few guffaws at the site of Mickey in a bucket hat, as they pick their way through the gaggle of Gallaghers and settle near the grill, manned by Carl, who has thankfully gotten rid of his ridiculous cornrows. Ian dumps the packs of hot-dogs he brought on Carl and takes a look around. Fiona and Vee are already gorging themselves on cheap wine, Lip and Kev are setting up a fireworks display, Debs is MIA for a moment, until she emerges from the house with Svetlana, carrying an array of bowls, utensils, and non-alcoholic drinks between them, and there’s a whole nursery full of kids lined up in strollers or high-chairs (Amy and Gemma, Yevgeny, and a one-month-old Franny) who all seem to be in five-year-old Liam’s care.

Mickey heads over that way and scoops Yevgeny up, tickling him under the chin. He’s gotten better with the kid over the last few months and Svetlana, in turn, has started to trust him more. At least she has no problem dumping Yev on them, along with the twins, when she’s busy doing fuck knows what with Kev and Vee. Their house is like a goddamn jungle these days with all the baby-shit littering it.

Svetlana spots him and comes over, clapping him on the shoulder. “You look like idiot in shitty patriotic hat,” she tells him, laughing.

“Fuck off,” comes Mickey’s automatic response. “Hey Ian! Did you get your money?”

Ian waves a handful of bills at him which satisfies Mickey. He rips the hat off and tries to force it on Svetlana. When that doesn’t work he just plops it on Yevgeny’s head which makes the toddler giggle.

“Pappy!” he exclaims as Mickey tries to put him back in the high-chair, his hands scrabbling uselessly at Mickey’s collar.

“Yep, I’m your Pops.”

“He wants you to hold him, Mikhailo,” Svetlana intones, rolling her eyes at his idiocy.

“I told you not to call me that!” Mickey snaps, though he dutifully picks the kid back up and finds a comfortable spot for him on his hip. Ever since discovering his real name, Svetlana hasn’t called him anything but and it’s fucking annoying. He hates his Ukrainian name. It just reminds him of his father and uncles.

When she continues laughing at him, he falls back on his natural response to everything and gives her the finger. But Svetlana still doesn’t get the hint and starts calling out loudly that she has an announcement to make.

Once everyone’s eyes are on her she breaks the good news. “Mikhailo and me finalized divorce today. Piece of shit marriage is over.”

What follows is an array of catcalls, congratulations, and a snarky comment from Lip of course. Svetlana and Mickey, though, exchange an actual smile. It’s a strange sight to see, between two people who just divorced each other, to say the least, and doesn’t go unnoticed by Kev.

“Hey, what was the deal with you two anyway?”

“It was forced marriage,” Svetlana supplies as Mickey’s face sours.

“Oh! How did that happen?” Kev’s curiosity is only tempered by a sharp jab to his arm by Vee’s elbow.

“Shut the fuck up, Kev! Let them be.”

“Well, now you and Ian can get hitched!” Kev’s ingenious realization slips out before his nonexistent filter can kick in, and Vee has to drag him away from Mickey’s murderous look.

Svetlana finally fucks off and lets Mickey get back to Ian, who's been watching the exchange in mild amusement. He relieves Mickey of Yevgeny who immediately starts playing grabby hands with his hair and babbling about “pum’inhead”, which is his way of saying Pumpkin Head. Ian goes ahead and assumes this is Svetlana’s latest nickname for him.

Fiona, Vee, and Svetlana take over the pool, using Liam as their busboy,  making him refill their supply of booze and grub.

“Can you believe Ian’s the only one with a significant other at this thing?” Fiona comments, her face flushed due to too much alcohol consumption in too short of a time.

“What are Kev and I? Just fuckbuddies? That’s Svet’s status!” Vee giggles tipsily. Svetlana, intoxicated herself, doesn’t seem to mind this classification of herself.

“It’s good arrangement. Everybody is happy this way.”

Lip is indulging Debbie in wild tales of his college escapades, as the two pass a bottle of Smirnoff back and forth, while Kev is painstakingly feeding Amy and Gemma bits of barbecued chicken, lost in his own world.

Mickey mostly sticks to Ian’s side, except for a quick bathroom break. Whenever they’re at a Gallagher function, be it a movie night, impromptu dance party, or Tuesday night dinner, they never drift too far apart, something which Carl, who they’re hanging out with all evening, doesn’t fail to notice.

“Do you guys like pass out if you’re more than five feet apart?” he asks in his flat tone, flipping a heavily-charred steak.

“Something like that,” Ian says before Mickey can respond grouchily. They’re the only ones left, other than the kids, who aren’t shit-faced and are keeping up a running commentary about the rest of the people in the yard.

“This is good shit!” Mickey says, sampling Carl’s steak. He pats the kid on the back and the younger boy shrugs it off, blushing. A compliment from Mickey Milkovich is not something you take lightly.

Someone turns up the music and soon all the girls in the pool are dancing wildly, while Kev, Lip, and Debbie sing along, stumbling over the words and horribly off-key. Liam seems put off by all the craziness and comes over to the “sober club”, as Ian’s dubbed it, to hang out.

“When we having the cake?” he asks casually.

“Liam!!” Ian hisses, glancing over at Mickey who thankfully is too busy tasting Carl’s giant roasted marshmallows to have heard. “That’s a surprise.”

Liam just shrugs and, looking like an overworked single mom, wanders back over to the babies, who have somehow fallen asleep, except Yevgeny who is still in Ian’s lap, sucking on one of his fingers and looking happy as a clam.

Carl ends up setting off the fireworks, since Kev and Lip are far too wasted to be trusted, and he’s always been a bit of a pyromaniac. As they go off, Ian slips his hand into Mickey’s who doesn’t flinch but in fact grips his hand tighter. Mickey can’t help but think back to last year’s 4th of July. His house had been piled high with suitcases, he had no fucking clue what the hell was wrong with Ian, and he could barely look at his kid without gagging. Now here they are; he and Svetlana are civil to each other, he actually loves Yev somehow, and Ian. Ian is fucking okay. Things are different, sure. Just look at them tonight, staying sober while everyone else gets wasted. But they’re together, and they’re fucking okay.

Something niggles at the back of his head, though, and he knows what it is. Mandy. His fucking little sister. But he pushes that thought back. He’s trying with her, he texts her a few times a week, tells her she can come home, that he’ll come get her, that he’s there if she needs him, and that’s more than he ever thought two Milkovich siblings could do for each other. Mandy needs to figure her shit out and if and when she wants his help, he’ll be there.

Ian brings him back to the present, slipping an arm around his shoulder. “We’re fucking good,” he says with a smile as if reading Mickey’s thoughts.

“Yeah. Yeah, we are,” Mickey smiles back, for once at a loss.

Finally, after all the fireworks have fizzled out, and everyone’s eaten and, in many cases, drank their fill, Fiona gets up, a little wobbly.

“Well, since our esteemed patriarch is not here this year, I guess it falls to me to make some kind of speech.”

Not a moment after these words are out, a dirty figure stumbles into the backyard, clutching a bottle of Jack Daniels.

“Slow down there, my fine felon. This patriarch may be down but he is not out for the count,” Frank says, swiping a shriveled hot dog off the smoking grill. A collective groan sweeps through the yard as everyone braces themselves for a Classic Frank Diatribe™. Mickey secretly compares how similar Frank and Lip are and wonders if he’s the only one who sees it.

 “Friends, Romans, Countrymen, Gallaghers and lay-persons alike, once again we celebrate the day our esteemed, slave-trading, alcohol-guzzling, tantrum-throwing, bloviating forebears adopted an essentially meaningless piece of parchment.” Frank pauses and takes a long swig of liquid courage and a bite of room-temperature hotdog before continuing, pleased to be holding everyone’s attention. “Though, looking at the assembled crowd here, I doubt our antecedents would approve of this gathering; A flock of Irish folk, a member of the notable, criminal Ukrainian clan, an African-American woman, and a Russian, _former-_ prostitute, so I hear. Quite the multi-cultural assemblage we’ve got here.”

Frank, once again, stops for a drink, except this time, after downing a few mouthfuls, he promptly collapses, unconscious.

“Shame,” Lip comments off-handedly. “I was actually enjoying that one.”

Svetlana and Vee shoot him a look; apparently, they hadn’t enjoyed their descriptions. Fiona matter-of-factly gets up and drags Frank out of the way before saying something quietly to Debbie, who heads into the house.

“Anyway, I’m too fucking drunk for a speech,” Fiona begins, brushing her hair out of her face. “So I’ll just cut to the chase. If you told me a couple of years ago that I’d be celebrating Mickey fucking Milkovich’s birthday I would have laughed in your face, but here we are. Debs.”

Debbie emerges from the rickety old steps, carrying a large, square cake, featuring a whole cluster of lit candles as everyone starts to sing “Happy Birthday” at their own pace. Mickey glares around sullenly, his gaze finally landing on Ian.

“Really? What the fuck?”

Ian laughs right in his face. “Happy birthday to you too, Mick.”

Debbie sets the cake down on the table by the grill and Mickey can’t help but count the candles. “Why are there twenty-five fucking candles?” He isn’t very used to birthday cakes and shit but he’s pretty sure there’s supposed to be one for each year.

“Isn’t it your twenty-fifth birthday?” Debbie asks, suddenly anxious.

“What? Fuck no! I’m twenty.”

At this, there’s an uproar. Lip and Debbie are yelling at Fiona and Carl. Kev’s scratching his head and counting on his fingers, while Vee exclaims “Damn kid! You’re only twenty?!”

“What the fuck? They really thought I was twenty-five? Do I look that old to you?” Mickey mutters to Ian who finds the whole exchange hilarious.

“Apparently, there was a debate,” he says, gesturing at the chaos. “Why didn’t they just ask me?”

Mickey’s eyebrows shoot up. “What? You’re not behind this?”

“No. Although I did get you a couple of presents. Got one inside.”

Mickey’s head falls back and he sighs. “Fuck. Can’t do this shit now.”

“Come on, they like you,” Ian shoots back. “Seriously,” he adds, seeing Mickey’s incredulous look. “They didn’t think you’d stick around through all my shit, so, I don’t know, I guess they’re impressed.”

“Fine,” Mickey says, getting up. “Who the fuck here decided I was twenty-five?! Do I look like some geriatric to you?!”

Debbie’s the one who answers and she looks kind of distraught. “I don’t know. Lip said you can’t be more than twenty-two, but Fiona thought you were, like, twenty-eight or something, and Carl agreed, so we just settled on twenty-five.”

“You thought I was twenty-eight?! What the fuck?” Mickey says, turning on Carl, and ignoring Fiona because things with her are still a little awkward.

“I can’t believe you were pimpin’ at eighteen!” Vee calls out. “That’s a whole new kind of fucked up.”

“Okay, very nice. He is younger than you thought,” Svetlana interrupts, elbowing her way over. “Can you make wish and blow out candles before cake burns?”

Mickey obliges and takes them all out in one go. “Happy fucking birthday to me, I guess.”

“Hey Mickey, what did you wish for?” Lip shouts.

“Fuck if I’d tell you!”

“Aw, come on, let’s hear it!” Fiona clammers, her demand echoed by everyone there, besides Liam who just wants a piece of cake.

“Not happening! You got a fucking knife to cut this thing?”

Carl produces one, and it’s covered in barbecue grease but no one gives a damn, so Mickey cuts the cake as best he can, making sure Liam gets an extra large slice.

“Presents!” Kev yells above the fray, bringing out a couple of wrapped items while everyone’s busy stuffing themselves.

Mickey blanches, inching back to Ian’s side. “What the fuck is this?”

“You really need to expand your vocabulary, Milkovich,” Lip says teases.

Mickey ignores the eldest Gallagher brother and grabs the biggest present, eager to just get this over with. He tears through the wrapping, feeling just the slightest bit guilty because someone had obviously taken time to do a good job, revealing a coffee machine underneath.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath. “How much did you shell out for this?”

“You do not ask how much gift is!” Svetlana exclaims, exasperated.

“No, come on. This shit looks expensive,” Mickey insists, digging into his pocket and coming up with a few crumpled bills. “How much?”

“Uh, it’s a gift,” Lip says, eyes widening as if he can’t believe Mickey’s absurd response. “Gift, Mickey? Present? Endowment? Means you don’t pay for it, you know?”

“Alright, fine…shit,” Mickey mutters, rubbing his brow, his face red. “Whose this from anyway? You guys?”

“Me and Carl,” Debbie says a little timidly. “I mean I saw that you guys don’t have a coffee machine, so… Carl paid for most of it, anyway.”

Mickey gets a strange expression on his face that Ian interprets as him being touched. “Um… well… y’know… thanks,” he finally manages, glancing at the two younger Gallaghers. Carl nods, blushing himself, but Debbie actually comes over and hugs him, just like that, without warning. Mickey’s dumbfounded, but Ian just rolls his eyes. His boyfriend is really an idiot. Debbie stops by their house a couple times a week, bringing cookies and trying to get Mickey to teach her how to play the guitar, and Carl’s always shooting shit, talking guns, and smoking weed with Mickey. He has to be blind not to realize that they really like him.

The next item, a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label from Kev and Vee, (and maybe Svetlana too, whatever), goes off a lot smoother. Booze, Mickey can handle.

Then comes a reservation at the fucking Four Seasons. What. The. Fuck.

“What the fuck?!” he says, looking around.

“Got someone to hook me up with that,” Lip supplies coolly, a cigarette clamped in his mouth. “That’s me and Fiona.”

Mickey just stares down at the card in his hand, rendered speechless, and doesn’t even shake Fiona off when she wraps her arms around him.

“Happy Birthday, Mickey,” she says quietly, so that only Mickey, and Ian who’s right behind him, can hear. “And thank you, you know, for everything. You two deserve a fucking break.” It’s the first time that Fiona’s ever hugged him and he can’t decide if he’s okay with it or he wants to shove her away. He manages a grim smile and a one-fingered salute in Lip’s general direction and hopes that that’s enough of a response.

“Can’t believe I got my brother’s boyfriend a gift that facilitates the two fucking their brains out,” Lip mutters to Kev.

“Nah, Mickey’s a good guy,” Kev says, watching them almost fondly.

“Those are mine,” Ian says, gesturing at the two remaining packages. “Although I’m feeling pretty outclassed here. This one’s a joke so do it first.” He throws a long, thin, piece at Mickey, who feels its weight and grins.

“This what I think it is?” He laughs, unwrapping it. It’s a tire iron and the two burst out laughing to everyone’s utter bemusement.

“Alright, backstory please!” Vee yells above the din and Ian, with a shrug from Mickey, tells them. The story leaves most of them laughing uncontrollably, during which time, Liam comes up to Mickey and taps him on the elbow.

“Happy birthday,” he says with a shy smile, one that Mickey can’t help but return, patting the kid’s head softly. He’s spent a lot of time with the youngest Gallagher, first in those early nightmarish months of Ian’s diagnosis, when he couldn’t bring himself to sleep and Liam would be up too for some reason, and more recently when Liam would be dropped at their fucking daycare center with the rest of the rugrats.

Once the laughter dies down, Ian urges him to open up the last gift which he does, slowly. First, he slips out a pair of sweatpants which takes up most of the package; attached is a note that says “So you can stop borrowing mine, dick!”.

Mickey elbows him in the side. “Hey! That a fucking nice way to give a gift?”

“Shut up, Mick,” Ian says, glancing down nervously at the remaining little box at the bottom of the package.

Mickey opens it up to find a chain with a couple of dog tags attached. He’s preparing to look up and exaggerate how much he likes it when his breath catches. He feels Ian’s hand slip around his waist as he picks up the necklace to examine it. There are two tags, one with a picture of Ian and him, and another of him and Yevgeny, engraved. He doesn’t really trust himself to speak.

“Fuck,” he mouths, trying to swallow that annoying as fuck lump in his throat. He can’t cry in front of all these people. Why the fuck do you cry when you’re happy anyway? How fucked up is that?

“Do you like it?” Ian asks anxiously.

“Yeah. Fuck, Ian, I….yeah, I like it,” Mickey mutters, still not looking at him. Debbie takes the chain from his hand and everyone takes a turn to check it out.

“I have something else, but…that’s for later,” Ian whispers in his ear. Mickey finally looks up and envelopes Ian a tight hug, which the other boy returns enthusiastically.

When they pull apart, they realize that it’s gone quiet. Mickey’s rubs his nose, slightly embarrassed but not as much as he feels the situation really warrants, and Ian just raises an eyebrow, his arm still around Mickey.

“Can we just get a kiss already?” Fiona asks. “You two have been together forever and not a single one of us has seen you kiss.” Everyone nods their agreement and soon there’s a whole chorus of voices calling for a kiss.

Ian turns to gauge Mickey’s reaction, surprised when he seems to be considering it.

“You wanna do this?” he asks the redhead, a skeptical look on his face.

“Really?” Ian tries to temper the excitement he feels at the prospect but it doesn’t work too well.

“Yeah, fuck it. They’re all shit-faced anyway,” Mickey says, a smile spreading across his face.

Ian doesn’t waste another second and leans in, his hand sliding up to cradle Mickey’s head. Mickey kisses him back without hesitation, one of his own hands slipping around the nape of Ian’s neck and the other around his waist.

They go at it hard for a few seconds until a wolf-whistle (Lip) brings them back to reality and they break apart, trying to stifle their grins.

“Damn! Is it just me or was that hot?!” Vee says, fanning her face.

“No, it kinda was,” Kev says, looking confused.

Svetlana’s watching them somewhat proudly, Carl’s eyeing them, embarrassed, whether for them or himself is unclear, Debbie’s slipping her phone into her pocket, looking like a proud mama, while Fiona’s looking at Lip expectantly, her hand outstretched.

 Fucking Lip and his fucking bets. At least he seems to be losing them tonight. Liam breaks the moment by jumping into the pool with a loud splash and from there it’s a race to undress as everyone crams in. Mickey hangs back, not loving the idea of stripping in front of the whole Gallagher clan, but is saved when Ian heads back to sit at the grill.

“Don’t wanna get in there?” Mickey asks, waving a thumb behind him.

“Nah, not really.”

“Wanna go home?” he presses, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

Ian flashes a cheeky grin. “Kinda.”

They gather up the presents and then wish everyone a good night (Mickey even manages a big fucking thank you), enduring an endless stream of dirty jokes.

“Dumbasses,” Mickey huffs when they’re halfway down the block. “Think it makes them geniuses knowing that we’re gonna fuck. I mean, what the fuck else would we do?”

Ian loops an arm around him because he feels like it and because he could, and they make their way home, chatting and laughing.

They’ve barely shut the door and confirmed that Iggy isn’t around before Ian’s running his hands and mouth all over Mickey.

“Horny little shit,” the older guy laughs, pushing the redhead off him. “I gotta shower first, man. I’m pretty fucking gross.”

“What are we waiting for then?” Ian chuckles, grabbing his hand and pulling him into their tiny bathroom. They both start stripping, but no sooner than Ian’s t-shirt off, Mickey gasps. There’s a bandage wrapped around his whole chest (incidentally, covering those nipples he’s kinda fond of).

“What the hell? You got hurt?! Did someone...How could you not-”

Ian just gives him a shit-eating grin like everything’s okay. “Relax Mickey. This is that other gift. But, I mean it’s not actually a gift, it’s more of a gesture. I mean, it’s probably more for me than you, but I think you’ll-“

“Shut the fuck up, Ian. What are you going on about?”

“Just take it off. I wanted you to do it,” Ian’s voice softens at the end and Mickey complies. Ian’s watching him closely, so he bites his lip an unwraps the damn thing, only to freeze. Unconsciously, his hand moves and his fingers brush over it. His name. Right there. _Mickey_ **.** Tattooed in plain black letters on the left side of Ian’s chest, right over his fucking heart.

Before he even realizes what he’s doing, he leans down and kisses the thing, in the back of his mind wondering if it’s weird to kiss your own name.

“So you like it?” Ian’s voice causes him to stop staring at the ink and meet his gaze, finding the gentlest fucking expression he’s ever seen. This time it’s Mickey who crashes their lips together, his arms wrapping around Ian’s neck, and he hopes it’s answer enough because words have never been a strong point for him.

He doesn’t like it. He loves it. Because, deep, deep down, he knows that he needs Ian more than the redhead needs him. Ian has a whole family who’s crazy about him, who cares about him and who he cares about just as much. He was fine before hooking up with Mickey, and he’d probably be fine without him. But Ian is Mickey’s everything, his be all and end all. Ian is it for him. He knows he’d never be able to do this again with another person. And deep, deep down, he wonders if Ian loves him as much as he loves the redhead. He doesn’t really know if it’s possible and he has no idea how the fuck anyone can love him to begin with but seeing his name inked on Ian’s chest settles something inside him.

It confirms that he’s not imagining any of this shit, that what they have is fucking real, that he can stop worrying about Ian suddenly leaving him. Because that’s his worst nightmare, worse than his father strangling him in his sleep, worse than his mom being pierced by hundreds of needles, worse than Mandy getting hit by towering, faceless men. The thing that scares the living shit out of him more than anything is Ian calling it quits and leaving him with nothing.

The rest of their clothes come off and they shower leisurely, playing around with the showerhead and getting water everywhere. Mickey used to be uncomfortable by the very thought of showering together, but now he finds it kind of relaxing. They barely even fuck in there; it’s more of just being in a confined space together and touching Ian that he likes.

Ian’s resting his head on Mickey’s shoulder as the brunette rinses his hair when something occurs to him. “Hey Mick, what did you wish for?”

There’s silence for a while before he answers. “Shit. You’re gonna make me do this?”

Ian picks his head up to find Mickey blushing. “What? Is it really so embarrassing?”

“Nah, I just…fuck, fine! I wished that you’ll stay okay.”

“Really?” Ian whispers, brushing Mickey’s hair back.

“Uh…yeah.”

“Fuck, Mick. I don’t…I don’t deserve you.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay. Whatever. Let’s get outta here.”

They’re only semi-dry before their lips meet again, and they’re stumbling back to their room, unable to wait any longer. He pushes the smaller guy against the bed and they collapse on each other, limbs tangling.

“Hang on, I wanna do something,” Ian says suddenly, just as Mickey goes for his dick. “I wanna kiss you.” And then he’s off, slipping down to the end of the bed, leaving Mickey a bit bewildered.

“This is some weird-ass shit, Ian,” Mickey huffs a minute later, feeling his face grow hot as the redhead takes his left heel in hand. He never does well under scrutiny and right now, as Ian’s entire focus is concentrated on his body (kissing his toe, to be exact), Mickey feels like he’s suffocating. “Ian, stop,” he commands before he can help himself.

Ian looks up and immediately freezes at the obvious discomfort on Mickey’s face. “Shit, sorry. What’s wrong?”

“It’s fucking weird what you’re doing.” Mickey mumbles, focusing on a key-shaped crack in the ceiling.

“I just wanna kiss you.”

“Jesus Christ! Then fucking kiss me! But not my foot. Fuck!” It comes out harsher than Mickey means it to, but that’s how it always is with him and he’s fucking embarrassed right now so he doesn’t bother apologizing.

Ian’s still looking at him blankly. “Why can’t I kiss your foot?”

“I…I don’t fucking know. Shit! The fuck does it matter?” Ian doesn’t answer but instead starts gazing at his thighs and Mickey can’t take it anymore. “Just stop fucking looking at me!” he calls out wildly.

The room goes deathly quiet as their eyes meet; even the fan seems to stop whirring. “Why can’t I look at you?” Ian finally asks, with a hint of what is definitely sadness in his voice.

“I…fuck…I don’t know,” Mickey mutters, averting his eyes again, more embarrassed than ever.

“Hey, Mick,” Ian whispers, crawling up and cupping Mickey’s face, forcing the brunette to look at him. “It’s just me, alright? I just wanna kiss you, all of you. You’re fucking hot, you know? Just…just try to relax. I’ll turn the light off.”

And Mickey’s never been able to refuse that voice, that face, those eyes, those lips. Those hands. So he nods and tries to relax and eventually it happens on its own, as he watches Ian kiss him, feeling a little removed from the situation.

He never liked his body, always been a bit self-conscious about it. He was too fucking short, that was for damn sure, and too fucking stocky. He had a bit of a paunch too, always had. He never could seem to shed that flab, no matter how hard he worked out. He was okay with his face, and his arms were alright, aside from that, though, he kind of fucking hated his body.

But right now, as Ian kisses his way up his right calf, Mickey can’t help but feel okay. Their eyes meet again and Mickey manages a faint, almost nonexistent smile, more like a twitching of the lips, but by the look Ian gives him, you would think he just proclaimed his love for him on national TV or some shit like that.

Mickey’s still fucking embarrassed but it feels different somehow. Not like he fell on his ass in front of a crowd but more like someone complimented him and he’s fucking pleased but not really willing to show it. Except, why the fuck can’t he show it?! It’s him and Ian, alone, in their fucking room and if he can’t be himself in front of the redhead then what the fuck is he even doing? So the next time Ian looks up, Mickey smiles, really smiles, and reaches down to grab one of those long-fingered hands in one of his own rather stubby ones. Ian’s beaming at him, literally beaming, and Mickey’s whole chest seems to flip when he notices that those emerald-green eyes are glinting in the dim lamp-light. He’s gotten pretty familiar with how those eyes look when the younger boy is crying.

“Hey, what’s up?” he whispers, not wanting to break the spell.

“Nothing,” Ian says hurriedly, his face positively glowing. Then he’s back to kissing Mickey’s leg, and fuck! he doesn’t want him to stop. Doesn’t want this to stop; the two of them. And it doesn’t. Ian continues to pepper his body with kisses, and Mickey realizes that the shame is gone; he can’t remember why he felt it in the first place.

He feels fucking peaceful which is quite a feat. Mickey Milkovich is one of the most tightly wound people known to mankind.

The redhead works his way up, studiously avoiding Mickey’s junk but covering every inch otherwise. He raises those tattooed fingers and brings them to his lips, brushing his mouth along the length of each one as he watches Mickey watch him. He realizes then that he’s never even asked Mickey about his tattoo; when he got it, why he got it and is once again reminded how little he knows about the boy beneath him. How little Mickey talks about himself. He vows right then and there to get him to open up. _I’m gonna get him to talk if I have to hold a fucking gun to his head to do it._

He kisses, strokes and sucks his way up Mickey’s abdomen and chest, over every faded scar, every pale bruise, every old hurt, leaving a trail of red marks in his wake. He’s always loved marking the older boy. It isn’t so long ago that Mickey still refused to let him leave anything visible, wouldn’t let him kiss him anywhere, would barely let Ian touch him. It had bothered the shit out of him, he hadn’t been able to understand. But that was over. Now he could love Mickey the way he always wanted to, and fuck if he was going to hold back. They still have catching up to do, as far as Ian is concerned.

He can feel Mickey’s arms slip around him as he kisses along his collarbone; the brunette’s hands settling on his back gently. Mickey is always so fucking gentle with him. It’s just one more thing in the long list of things that Mickey seems to reserve just for him.

Their eyes are inches from each other as Ian starts on Mickey’s face. Kiss. Stroke. Repeat. They’ve both lost track of time at this point. Mickey’s started leaning into the kisses automatically, his hands draped loosely around Ian’s back, his hips bucking subconsciously up to where Ian’s straddling him, desperate for some friction.

The redhead reaches up, closes Mickey’s eyes, even though it kills him to do it, and presses his lips to each lid, following that up by grazing his mouth over a cheekbone. He’s always loved Mickey’s cheekbones. Sometimes they’re more pronounced than others; when Mickey is thinner and more stressed, but these are the times when he wants to touch and feel them all the more desperately.

 After another minute of his ministrations, there’s only one spot left that he hasn’t sanctified. He moves in and Mickey lifts his head and their lips finally meet. It’s slow, almost lazy, but they both feel the relief in the kiss as if twenty minutes without their mouths being connected is too long.

When they break apart, it’s Mickey who speaks first. “Still not your bitch,” he breathes, but it’s hard to keep the awe out of his voice and Ian hears it loud and clear. No one’s ever done anything like that to him. No one’s ever looked at him so carefully, so gently, no one’s ever worshipped his body the way Ian just did.

And once again, the fucking redhead is right about pushing him into something he was scared of.

“Of course not,” Ian laughs, rolling his eyes and sitting back.

“Now hurry the fuck up and get on me.” There’s no bite to the words and Mickey chuckles as he says them, almost giddy. Ian doesn’t need to be told twice.

* * *

 

Mickey was never a big believer in love, of any kind. It was mostly a foreign concept to be scoffed at. Love was for weak people, for pussies, fags…people who had time for shit like that, who didn’t spend every minute of their lives just trying to survive. Mickey’s love extended as far as BBQ Pringles, Snickers bars and maybe Gatorade, the blue kind anyway. And maybe Steven Segal too; but that was more respect or hero worship than love. Even with Mandy, he never really felt what it meant to love. Sure, he’d protect her, kill anyone who hurt her, but that was more out of loyalty than anything else. She was his fucking sister and sisters were people you did anything for. But love?

He was unfamiliar with the very concept. Not that he dwelt on it much; it wasn’t exactly high on his list of things to think about back then. Back then, dealing, beatings, and food were what occupied 90% of his headspace. Who the fuck had time to think about shit like that?

Then Ian fucking Gallagher walked into his fucking room bearing a fucking tire iron and a fucking head of flaming orange fucking hair. Fuck. It’d still been a while before he even realized that he felt something for the silly idiot. Someone would look at Ian funny and he’d feel a stab of jealousy or anger. He’d show up to the Kash N’ Grab with a bruise or split lip and Mickey’d feel a desire to find the bitch who did it (namely Lip) and teach him a lesson. He tried to fight the feelings so damn hard but they just kept on coming. So he gave in a little and stopped trying to fight them, still hoping they’d just disappear eventually.

But they never did. In fact, they only grew stronger, to the point where most of his time was spent thinking about that fucking redhead. His second stint in juvie passed in a haze, wondering if he’d lost the idiot, wishing he’d fucking visit, missing him. He began to entertain the idea of love sometime then. Maybe it did exist, maybe it wasn’t right up there with fucking unicorns and Santa and Bigfoot. But he still refused to connect that with Ian Gallagher. He didn’t fucking _love_ Gallagher. Maybe…maybe he gave a shit about him. Maybe he would care if the kid fucking died. But he didn’t fucking _love_ him. What the fuck?! 

That was until that night. That fucking night that he tried to forget just as much as he tried to remember. Because it all went to shit a few hours later. But that night he knew he was in trouble, that he fucking cared about that boy. Not just if he lived or died, but how he felt, what he thought, if he was fucking happy, what Ian thought of _him_ …

That night he decided he believed in love. And if it was a bit grudgingly, then so be it. He fucking believed that it existed and what’s more, it was something he could feel and could have. Of course, it all fell on its head the next day, but it didn’t stop him believing that love existed. Maybe he realized that it wasn’t something he would ever have. It wasn’t something a Milkovich was gonna get, but it wasn’t all complete bullshit either. He conceded that much.

But then there was the dumbass fucking thing people called making love.

Sex was sex. It was dirty, it was fun, it fucking felt good. You fucked, you screwed, you banged, you jerked yourself off. Whatever. You didn’t make love. What the actual fuck? What sort of pansy-ass bitch came up with that expression?! That was some of the biggest bullshit he’d ever heard. And that didn’t change with Ian either. Or, at least not at first.

Because lately…lately, he’d been thinking about it. When they’d go slow, when they were face to face, when they were both calm and sober, he’d feel something other than that insane, desperate urge to get off. It was stupid, he told himself, but sometimes it all disappeared and he just wanted to make Ian feel good. He would forget about himself completely and get immersed in the guy above him. He’d lose track of time and place and feel all sorts of weird shit in his chest that he couldn’t put a name to.

And it felt so fucking good. Better than anything he’d ever felt before. Maybe that’s what people called making love, because if he stopped lying to himself then he could admit that the weird shit in his chest is this crazy feeling of wonder, protectiveness, and yeah, fucking love, for Ian. So yeah, maybe they were making love. Whatever. Fuck. Just another one of his most steadfast beliefs that Ian Gallagher has set a match to. He isn’t complaining, though. It’s fucking amazing.

And right now is one of those times and Mickey doesn’t know it but Ian feels the same damn way.

His face is buried in Mickey’s neck, his body stretched out over the brunette’s, as he thrusts, slowly and deliberately. Sweat builds up between them as they continue to chase their climax together, Mickey’s legs wrapped tightly around the redhead’s hips, his hands clinging to the younger boy’s shoulders.

 And Ian wants to see him. Wants to see him lost in pleasure, wants to see him as he unravels, wants to breathe his name and see his reaction. He lifts himself up on his elbows, just enough to see Mickey’s face as they move together. Neither of them is very loud in bed. Maybe it’s because of how they started, always hiding, always quick and hurried. But Ian doesn’t really think so. They’ve taken their time, they’ve had the house to themselves countless nights, but they’re still pretty quiet. And that’s the way he likes it. They don’t talk, they don’t tease, they just get lost in each other. All that ever seems to escape are muffled sighs, gasps, and breathless “fucks”.

 There’s nothing more breathtaking to Ian in the world than Mickey like this; his face, his skin, flushed and glistening with sweat, almost glowing, his mouth slightly parted, his eyes, so open, so trusting. Fuck! He feels like he’s about to burst with how much he feels for this beautiful, broken, complicated guy beneath him.

They continued rocking together and when Mickey lets a stuttered gasp escape, Ian can’t take it anymore. He stops thrusting for a moment and pauses, taking in those blue, blue eyes.

“I love you,” he whispers, the words just coming out. He’s thinking it, he may as well say it.

Mickey’s reaction confuses him. He can see a flicker of contentment, but that’s quickly replaced by fear, even panic, and his eyes break away, looking for something else to focus on. Ian knows this is the first time he’s said it and he knows it’s a big deal; lately the words have been burning a hole in his tongue. He’s been thinking them so much but he hasn’t been able to get them out. Until now. And suddenly it occurs to Ian:

 It could be the first fucking time anyone’s ever said those three words to Mickey. The realization jolts and hurts him. He’s gotta make this right.

“Hey, hey.” Ian cups Mickey’s face, holding it there until he’s willing to meet his eye. “I love you, Mick. You know that, right? Shit, you gotta know that. I just…I love you so fucking much.” Ian’s losing track of what he’s saying and he can feel a stinging sensation in his eyes, a sure sign of imminent tears.

But Mickey seems to calm down, an easy smile taking over his face. “Fuck, yeah, I know. You just spent twenty fucking minutes kissing me. Who the fuck does that shit?”

Ian knows what Mickey’s doing; deflecting. Turning the exchange into something lighthearted, throwing in a few f-bombs for good measure. Mickey does funny, he doesn’t do emotional or meaningful. He likes to laugh once you get to know him, he doesn’t cry, ever. Ian wants him to know, to acknowledge, to understand how fucking much he means to him, but he lets it slide, for now, instead opting for a deep, but gentle kiss, hoping that on the inside, at least, Mickey gets it.

He starts moving again, picking up where the two left off, and in no time, they’re breathing heavily, right on the cusp. Ian dips his head and their foreheads meet, eyes a mere inch apart, hands grasping, clutching, clinging…

They come, not together, but moments apart, sighing into the other’s mouth, letting the waves crash over them. They stay like that for a while, content to just breathe each other in before Mickey flips their position and starts doing to Ian what Ian did to him. He drops kiss after kiss across the redhead’s torso, lingering over the bold letters, bearing his name, inked over Ian’s heart.

Their sweat has barely cooled before he rides the redhead for round two. Then they share a cigarette and suck each other off for round three, before conking out and working through two more smokes, utterly spent. It’s been their routine since the beginning, the post-sex smoke, and they’re not stopping it now, even though Ian’s sort-of trying to quit.

They’re lying there for a minute, quiet and content, when Ian’s phone vibrates and he gets it, bursting into a fit of giggles. “Fucking Lip…he’s wasted,” he mutters, showing Mickey the raunchy text that just came in: An eggplant, a donut, and a cheeky, winking yellow face, with the words “Howz it going” in all-caps.

“Fucking perv…Why’s he thinking about us fucking anyway?”

“Probably can’t get any himself,” Ian grins. “You know he’s fucking his professor nowadays? Woman’s more than double his age.”

“What is it with you Gallaghers and the AARP obsession? Ain’t Fiona also fucking some old prune?”

“Yeah, Sean. And Debs had this twenty-year-old dude once. Hang on,” Ian mutters under his breath, bringing up the recorder on his phone. He starts it, moaning, groaning and cursing exaggeratedly for a few seconds before sending the recording to Lip with an evil grin and turning his phone off. “Deserves that.”

“I fucking hate loud people,” Mickey comments off-handedly, playing with the stub of a cigarette before dumping it into the cup-acting-as-an-ashtray on the night table. “You’re not in a fucking porno, so shut the fuck up! You should hear some of the shit that used to go down here…fucking nasty.”

“I wouldn’t mind hearing you,” Ian counters, ruffling Mickey’s hair fondly, something he’s recently taken to doing. Mickey pretends to hate it but Ian knows he secretly likes it. Or at least when they’re alone, he does. And the fact that the older guy captures his hand and presses a sloppy kiss to it doesn’t help his begrudging act either.

“Not gonna happen,” Mickey says, laying down and not-so-subtly inching as close to Ian as physically possible. Ian puts an arm around him, even though it’s pretty hot in the room and their close proximity is just generating more heat. Who actually gives a fuck?

He watches as Mickey’s features slacken, as the creases in his face smooth out, as the rosiness fades and his skin’s usual pallor resurfaces. He continues watching as Mickey wraps an arm around him, his hand finding purchase on Ian’s chest, as his breathing slows and he starts to drift off. Ian knows he should go shower, that he’s gotta wash and clean the tattoo on his chest if he doesn’t want it to get fucking infected, but he doesn’t want to move. He really just wants to continue watching his boyfriend fall asleep against him.

“You’re beautiful, you know?” Ian breathes against Mickey’s forehead, where his lips rest. He can faintly taste the drying sweat on the older guy’s brow.

A moment passes before Mickey responds and when he does, it’s barely audible. “Fuck off,” he mutters against the redhead’s shoulder. But the ‘fuck off’ sounds more like a tentative ‘You really think so?’ than a ‘leave me the fuck alone’, and Ian smiles softly, pulling back so he can see Mickey’s face.

“Best thing I’ve ever done,” he says quietly.

 And this time, there’s no fear in those pale blue eyes, no desire to flee or lash out, just happiness, as Mickey smiles up at him. It’s small but genuine, and one that only Ian ever gets to see.

 _It’s a shame no one else sees it…really makes him look harmless…_ Ian thinks distractedly, carding two fingers through Mickey’s hair which is pretty long these days; he wears it slicked back, similar to when he first found Ian at the Fairy Tale. Ian doesn’t remember much of that night but one thing he always recalls noticing, even in the delirious state that he was in, is how hot Mickey had looked. His hair combed back, his shirtsleeves rolled up, his sky-blue eyes glinting in the garish lighting…fucking beautiful, like now.

A couple of strands have found their way out of place, plastered to Mickey’s forehead instead, and Ian brushes then back, pressing a soft kiss in their wake.

“Happy Birthday, Mick,” he says to the room at large, thinking the brunette has fallen asleep. _Ha, I sure did wear him out. He’s gonna fucking hear about it tomorrow!_

But then Mickey’s eyes flutter, and he mumbles under his breath, in a tone only Ian could pick up. “It was.”

“Huh?”

“It was a happy fucking birthday, dick,” Mickey grumbles. “Probably the happiest. Don’t make me repeat it.”

“Really? The happiest?” Ian slips before he can stop himself, trying to ignore the tightening in his chest that seems to surface every time he’s reminded about how fucked up Mickey’s life has been. He never speaks about it, though; even when Ian specifically asks, trying to get him to open up, it’s always curt, one-sentence answers that scream “I don’t wanna fucking talk about this”.

“Yeah, shithead. What the fuck do you think? Last year, I was worried you were losing your shit. Two years ago…fuck, I probably hadn’t even kissed you. Three years ago, I was on a run with my dad, and four years ago I hadn’t even met you. Well, I had, but you know...”

Ian chuckles, moving to straddle the drowsy brunette, taking his wrists and pinning him down. “Those were dark days, huh?”

“Fuck yes, they were,” Mickey grins, freeing his hands and wrapping his arms tightly around the laughing redhead’s back, bringing him down.

“Wanna go again?” Ian asks, half joking. He sees the indecision in Mickey’s eyes; on the one hand not wanting to yield and admit he’s tired, on the other hand, he’s really fucking tired!

_I’ll give him a break just this once._

“Forget it. I’m pretty wiped out,” Ian lies, rolling onto his back, letting out an embellished yawn and bringing up the covers. He watches Mickey relax in response and tries to hide his smirk; Mickey’s so predictable.

Eventually, Ian does go shower, but it’s pretty lonely so he doesn’t even use soap, just wanting to get back to bed. He slips under the covers, intending to go to sleep (it’s after two already) but ends up watching Mickey breathing for nearly half an hour. They both do it all the time, sneak looks and touches as the other sleeps. Ian often wakes up to the weight of Mickey’s hand on his face or in his hair, a finger tracing his jaw or nose, the feeling of those eyes watching him. He usually pretends to be asleep, not wanting it to stop, and knowing that Mickey’d freak out if he’s awake. And he wants to do the same now, except Mickey’s a feather-light sleeper and Ian doesn’t wanna wake him, so he just watches.

He doesn’t want to fall asleep. He never wants to look away.

_Don’t wanna close my eyes, don’t wanna fall asleep…._

“Oh fuck,” Ian mutters to himself, rubbing his forehead. “Now that shitty song is in my head.”

 

 The End

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please excuse what's probably my awful Spanish, that came straight off google translate.
> 
> This was supposed to be a small piece about Mickey being uncomfortable with Ian kissing his whole body, but...well, it turned into this.
> 
> Thank you all for reading, let me know what you think! <3 <3 <3


End file.
